


bound by words forever unsaid

by Chromaticism



Series: A Partnership Forged in Mutual Vitriol [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Character Study, Drunkenness, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Multi, Nostalgia, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Oblivious Harry Potter, Vitriolic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-18 00:46:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13670754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromaticism/pseuds/Chromaticism
Summary: “Give the Dark Lord hell for me, Potter. Hanging, head on a pike, drawn and quartered…”There was a definite viciousness to Blaise’s voice.“Make it appropriately medieval," he ordered with an imperious nod.Harry nodded back, having only understood Dark Lord and hell. He’d send him to hell where bad things go.“Yes, Blaise. Whatever you want,” he slurred unintelligibly.Blaise gave a disgusted little cough and clapped him on the shoulder, leaning in to peer at his eyes. He searched for something for a moment, maybe some inner conviction or something appropriately heroic he’d need for killing Voldemort, before backing away.“That’s a good Gryffindor,” he said with a wry shake of his head.Blaise’s nose wrinkled minutely as if Harry were something disgusting beneath his nails and Harry laughed himself to the point he felt sick, ignoring Hermione gently rubbing his back. It was like nothing had changed.





	bound by words forever unsaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i_claudia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/gifts).



> Christ, it's been a long time since I've actually written something and finished it and it's not turian porn. Weird.
> 
> This is an exploration of an AU I've been considering where Blaise and Harry have somehow stumbled into friendship. A lot of the depictions of Blaise I've seen on FF.net and AO3 lean far towards Gary Stu for my own liking and end up feminizing Harry, robbing him of any agency he had (which wasn't much to begin with). I wanted to give him my own spin. Depending on the reception here, I may further develop this idea.
> 
> Gifted to i_claudia. I don't know if you're still active in fanfic, but your depiction was the one that resonated with me the most. Thank you.

“I’ll be fine, Hermione,” Harry said.

The assured half-smile he attempted felt laughably transparent.

“Really,” he confirmed, failing to convince even himself.

Hermione huffed.

“You’re lying, but I understand. I’d feel the same.”

Harry continued his idle rifling through the photo album Hagrid made for him, still unable to make eye contact with Hermione. Still bitter.

“I just want a break, you know? We need a break,” Hermione ground out.

She was pacing now, still maintaining distance between them even with her lengthy strides. He wanted a break as well. Anything to forget the broken wand not even an arms-length away.

It came to him in a rush of breath.

“I think I have an idea, Hermione,” he said.

“You do?”

The relief in her voice was almost joyous. She reached for him before thinking better of it, standing before him with an impatient stare.

“Did you put a pair of mismatched socks with Snitches on them in your bag when we packed?” Harry asked.

“I think so. Why?”

Harry smiled for the first time since their escape from Nagini.

“There’s a letter in one of them which I shrank. Pass it to me.”

While Hermione searched her bag, Harry idly remembered how he’d received it.

_Blaise approached him with the quiet rustling of well-tailored robes. He was still in the black robes he’d worn to Dumbledore’s funeral, though by his clear eyes, neutral expression, you’d never think he’d attended. A stab of violent hate went through Harry, irrational, and a hate that he hadn’t felt since Snape had escaped on the grounds, but Dumbledore deserved even the smallest crack in Blaise’s seemingly impenetrable demeanour._

_The silence was long, broken only by the murmurs of Hagrid, McGonagall, Flitwick, Slughorn and two other Professors he didn’t recognise methodically banishing the seating away._

_“Look, Potter,” Blaise said, a strange tightness to his face, “I understand things will be… difficult for you in the future.”_

_It was an incredibly trite statement and Harry snorted, continuing his vigil over the Black Lake. The heat of Ginny sidled up to him, greatly diminished at this point, seemed to be fixated in every iota of his being, despite her absence. Her pretty red hair, easy smiles and explosive personality were remnants of days when Voldemort wasn’t the only thing in his future. He’d thrown that away, all too quickly. Maybe if he’d been as quick to fight off Dumbledore’s body-bind and throw an_ expelliarmus _at Malfoy and Snape too._

_Harry’s fists unconsciously clenched._

_Maybe something more permanent. If he’d been stronger, maybe Ginny would still be beside him talking about going to Hogsmeade together, teasing Ron and letting him count her freckles between kisses. If he’d just done more, Dumbledore would still be_ alive _._

 _Blaise was a constant in this newly formed world of misery, even if his form of constancy was unwelcome. A sigh sounded somewhere to his right, where Blaise was hovering, acting as if the affairs of regular people, Dumbledore’s death,_ murder _, was beneath his concerns._

_“I’ll leave you to mourn, but if you need somewhere to go…” Blaise trailed off._

_“We’re friends, right?”_

_Harry almost choked. Now was not the time for whatever insecurities Blaise had hidden for the years he’d known him._

_“Is it really the time for a demonstration of your lack of social skills or tact, Blaise?”_

_He regretted snapping before he’d even finished his sentence. Of all the people Harry knew, Blaise was one of the few people who seemed to get some sort of thrill out of making him angry._

_“Yes or no is fine, Potter. No need to insult me,” he positively purred._

_Harry knew if he made eye contact right now, Blaise would have a giant smirk on his face. His vision became full focused on the lazy ripples of the Giant Squid moving beneath the surface of the lake._

_“If I say yes, will you shove off?”_

_“Well, I don’t want your answer out of duress, but – “_

_Harry’s head sunk into his hands. Positioned like this, he couldn’t smell Ginny anymore which sent a sharp jolt through him. It wasn’t as unwelcome as he thought it would be._

_That realisation scared him._

_“Yes! Merlin’s beard… you think I’d put up with you if we weren’t?”_

_There was no doubting the pleasure in Blaise’s ensuing hum, though Harry wasn’t entirely sure whether it was at riling Harry up, one of Blaise’s favourite pastimes, or this clear confirmation of their friendship. With Dumbledore dead and Voldemort looming on the horizon, it was hard to give a damn about Blaise’s potential insecurities._

_Blaise finally entered his field of view, blocking his view of a tentacle breaking through the water of the lake. He was effortlessly handsome as usual. In his hands was a thin, brown envelope; expensive and artisan crafted, by the looks of it at least._

_“Just take this envelope. Open it if you have nowhere to go.”_

_Harry took it, an eyebrow raised in question. He could feel the impressions of a fiery magic in the embossed seal. Blaise just gave him a stiff, almost uncertain nod. Something flickered in his dark, almond eyes as if he had something more to say, something important, but he turned on his heel, walking off, soundless and fast._

_“Look after yourself, Potter,” he called over his shoulder._

_Blaise sounded oddly disappointed, Harry noted somewhere in the back of his mind._

_Harry applied a quick Shrinking Charm, hurriedly shoved the envelope in his pocket and quickly forgot about it. Later, he’d dump it in one of the socks in a pair Dobby had given him back in his fourth year._

Harry jolted out of his recollection with the gentle pat of the envelope falling in his lap. He opened it quickly, almost missing the sight of Hermione’s wand out.

She must have been levitating it.

“It burnt my hands when I touched it,” she explained in response to his cagey expression.

“Oh. Sorry,” he said.

Harry should have known better. Blaise seemed like the type to curse his correspondence when handled by others. What else could that impression of fire he’d gotten when handling it be?                                                                                                                                                                   

“The person who gave it to me is… a little paranoid,” Harry said.

Hermione nodded, still wary of his mood. He opened it hastily.

_At last resort, come to:_

_26C Southern Street_

_Kings Cross,_

_London_

_N1 9RH_

A photograph of a busy street fell out of the envelope, a riot of cars and people moving in and out of frame in dull sepia. Looking carefully, he could make out 26 Southern Street, a pale stone building with two, no three, buttons for each flat next to the door.           

“I don’t recognise this handwriting,” Hermione said pointedly, looking over his shoulder.

“I do, and I’ll repeat that I trust the person who gave this to me,” Harry replied.

Hermione sat beside him on his bed, eyebrows furrowed, and lips pinched. Her curious, severe look only served to bring the bruises on her face from their fight with Nagini into stark relief.

“Why are you so insistent on going to this place?”

“It’s Christmas,” he said as if it explained everything.

“Merry Christmas,” she said hesitantly, running her fingers through her tangled hair.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he said in reply.

The smile that came to his face was more genuine than any he’d managed to muster in what felt like weeks.

“Trust me,” he implored. “I’ll pack… if you’re up for it.”

He knew he’d won when Hermione exited the tent, leaving the bag at his side. The murmur of her systematically removing their wards filled the quiet night air.

Harry’s hands wrung through his hair, frustrated and all too aware of the phantom pain of the Horcrux stuck to his heated flesh.

Perhaps this was her form of penance. Her easy acquiescence to go to an unknown place after the danger they were just in was alarming by Hermione’s standards. Harry wanted to tell her again how much he owed her, but he was still bitter about his wand, broken into pieces in the wake of her heroism. Would he not be dead beneath Voldemort’s wand without her timely arrival? He would be. But still, it was easy to steel himself and gather their stuff into Hermione’s bag, still nurturing that seed of resentment.

When everything was packed, Hermione simply took his hand in her own. Harry turned to face her, taking in her bruised complexion after their struggle with Nagini, the world weariness in her face, her chaotic hair, and knew that there was no-one else he’d want to struggle against Voldemort with. She was his sister in all but blood. The pang in his heart that he knew was the absence of Ron, _his best mate_ , was something he barely managed to ignore. He gave her an affectionate squeeze. She didn’t smile or make eye contact like she might have months ago, or bear hugged him if he’d caught her at a good time, but she weakly squeezed back. It was enough. He crouched with her, draping his cloak over them as he did so.

They disapparated with a crack, landing on the doorstep depicted in the photo with a quiet pop.

“Pretty upscale area,” Hermione said with a sniff. “Right next to King’s Cross Station.”

Harry hoped that this didn’t backfire on them as he pressed the buzzer.

It was a long wait with neither of them daring to speak into the intercom.

The door opened silently, and a wand held tightly in a dark-skinned hand his first sight of the occupant. Blaise appeared before them, eyes flinty with resolve. The other hand was smoothing the wrinkles in the thin white shirt he must have hastily put on as he came to the door.

Harry snorted. Even with possible Death Eaters at his door, Blaise’s first preoccupation was making sure his clothes were unwrinkled.

“Take off the cloak, Potter. I’d know that snort anywhere.”

He and Hermione emerged into the gentle snowfall, a shiver wracking Harry’s form. Hermione was staring at their prospective host, an eyebrow climbing steadily higher into her hair. Blaise was ordinarily lean, but there was a skinniness to his tall frame now, none of the whipcord athleticism he’d previously had. It was sobering of the reality of living in hiding. He wondered what Blaise made of the difference in them.

"Well... wasn’t expecting to see you. Either of you. Hoping actually," Blaise murmured, already stepping back to let them through the narrow corridor into his flat.  
  
A lazy smirk crossed Blaise's lips as Harry half-jogged past the threshold into the wonderful warmth.  
  
"It's two in the morning, Potter. I hope it’s a coincidence you came here for Christmas,” he called as Harry stood before him.  
  
Hermione traipsed past the doorway after him, closing the door behind her.  
  
"Granger," Blaise acknowledged with a questioning arch of his eyebrow.  
  
"Zabini."

The only sign that Blaise had been sleeping when they'd knocked on his door was the frequency with which he kept rubbing at his eyes. Otherwise, he seemed perfectly alert.  
  
They ended up in his kitchen, sat at a small wooden table with the loud whistle of a kettle breaking the silence. Hermione, at his left, was unbearably silent. He didn't know whether to chalk it up to the presence of the horcrux under her knitted Weasley jumper, and that brought a forlorn half-smile to Harry's face, or just the lack of comfort that came with being in such unfamiliar territory. Both, likely. She’d known about his strange friendship with Blaise, but it still must have been strange to have been invited to his home. Blaise amongst their year was largely an unknown quality.  
  
"I only have tea, I'm afraid," Blaise said. He rummaged through some overhead cabinets. "Milk? Cream? Sugar?"  
  
"Yes, yes and one teaspoon for me," Hermione said.  
  
"Just milk for me, Blaise," Harry said.  
  
He idly toyed with the beads on Hermione's miracle bag while their host made their tea in silence.  
  
After handing them their tea and nodding absently at their thanks, Blaise took a seat across from them with a significant gaze in his dark eyes. In the bright lighting of the kitchen, he looked almost as bad as they did. He wasn't approaching sallow-skinned in the way that Harry or Hermione were, considering his dark skin, but he seemed rather pale. His cheekbones, normally sharp on his features, were positively dagger-like and the bags under his eyes were like deep trenches. He looked like one of the delinquents Petunia had always been telling Dudley to avoid (and failing), though Harry could never imagine Blaise getting drunk, never mind being addicted to drugs.  
  
"Weasley's still alive?"

Blaise took a sip of his tea, wincing slightly before his features smoothed over. Harry winced sympathetically; Petunia had always insisted that he take his tea without cream or sugar, claiming he didn’t deserve it.

"Of course. He's still alive," Hermione muttered.

Harry sighed, cursing Blaise’s uncanny ability to start a conversation on the wrong note. He was fairly sure it was intentional as well.

"Ron isn't with us," Harry said, giving Hermione's shoulder a gentle squeeze in solidarity.

Harry knew Blaise well enough to know that he'd be able to read enough out of that gesture to make the appropriate conclusion. A part of him feared that Blaise would needle at that admission, but he just shrugged in that way he was fond of when dealing with a situation where malicious sarcasm was inappropriate.  
  
"Well, you both look half-starved,” Blaise drawled. “Not that I look much better even with food.”

Harry had to press his hand firmly against Hermione’s thigh to stop her from responding to that. He knew that she felt guilty about their food situation since Ron had left.

“There’s pasta salad in the fridge. It’s... edible,” Blaise said, stressing the word edible as if he wasn’t sure himself.

Part of Harry’s stomach sunk at the idea of more poorly prepared food, but the significant part of it, the unbearably hungry part, was the part that seemed to have control over his mouth now.

“Yes please.”

Harry was sure that at this point Hagrid’s rock cakes would go down as a culinary revelation between the two of them, yet he braced himself regardless. Just like a Wronski feint he thought to himself as Blaise quickly dished their portions into two bowls.

They ate in silence. Privately, Harry was in awe of how good it was.

“It was very good,” Hermione said when they’d finished, not even ten minutes later.

“Thank you. My nonna taught me how to make it,” he murmured graciously.

A brief smile crossed his face, transforming it incredibly. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

“Is she…?”

Blaise winced slightly at the direction of Hermione’s questioning.

“Yes, she’s a Muggle.”

He took on the air of someone explaining something obvious, eyes piercing as if daring the two of them to doubt what he was about to say.

“Family is especially important for Italians. Mamma would probably skin me alive if I spurned any of them because they didn’t have magic.”

It was such a clumsy excuse that it only served to further humanise him. It made him seem less Slytherin, clearly, going by Hermione’s soft expression.

“You’re better than I expected, Zabini. You’re alright, I guess,” Hermione offered.

Blaise just lifted an eyebrow that in any other situation would look aristocratic, but here it just looked petulant.

“Alright?”

It was incredibly unclear whether Blaise was repeating Hermione or awkwardly accepting the compliment. Harry dug his teeth into his fist, shaking with mirth.

“I mean, when you learn how to decipher all your quirks, you seem to be a decent person.”

She circled the rim of her mug, eyes staring into the distance in thought.

“A bit erratic though.”

Harry gestured at his empty plate, a laugh bursting out of him at Blaise’s horrified expression. The deer-in-the-headlights look of his face and the slight aghast parting of his lips made it seem as if Hermione had declared her intent to elope with him. Part of her jacket covered her mouth as she visibly fought the urge to laugh.

“Not bad for a Slytherin pureblood,” Harry added. “The food, and you.”

Hermione sat a bit to attention as if she wished to ask something but seemed to think better of it, sinking languidly back into her chair. Blaise’s eyes shifted his glare from Hermione towards Harry, a fraction softer.

“I think that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me, Potter,” Blaise said.

It seemed he’d recovered a sense of equilibrium as he gave the two of them a scathing glare. With how defensive his current posture was, arms crossed and leaning back into his chair, it was comical.

“Well, I imagine a pureblood, such as yourself, would have tried to cook something like this in a cauldron,” Harry drawled, finding it easy to slip into their usual routine of playful snipes.

“I’m not Goyle, Potter.”

“Besides, what would you know about cauldrons? I’ve seen the disasters you produced before Slughorn appeared. Not quite Longbottom, but horrific is a word I’d use. Has he been feeding you Felix Felicis by the gallon before every lesson?”

“Felix Felicis is highly toxic in large quantities,” Harry said sagely, "and as a NEWT Potions student you should know that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Of course, Potions Master Potter,” Blaise said, his lips tightly pursed and words a false saccharine.

“Don’t make me sick,” Hermione muttered. “I’ve just eaten.”

“You can call me Professor, Blaise,” Harry said.

Blaise was silent for a couple of moments, his eyes wandering between the two of them.

“Is that what you asked your little Defence group to do?”

Harry blushed despite himself.

“Professor Potter,” Blaise murmured to himself, “it could be worse, I guess.”

“I really don’t believe that, Zabini,” Hermione said.

“I didn’t do that…” Harry ground out.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still feeling the lingering burn of a blush at the back of his neck.

“Ah, yes, Professor Potter - noble resistor of the scourge of practical learning, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, Dolores Um –“

It was something Snape would say, right down to the drawl, and that was a person Harry could go without thinking about.

“All you need to know is that I’m better now,” Harry said in a rush, cutting off Blaise before he could say anything even more Snape-esque.

“Much better,” Harry added proudly.

He ignored Hermione’s elbow colliding with his chest with a grunt and answered Blaise’s questioning eyebrows.

“At Potions, that is.”

Blaise’s eyes seemed to light with glee. Harry sighed inside, knowing there was really no stopping him when he got like this.

“I have – well had, a thirty galleon bet with Malfoy that you’re cheating. Malfoy’s convinced that you’re also not that good, even with whatever cheating you’re doing, and Slughorn is overmarking you. Apparently refusing to associate with a Death Eater’s son, who spends the entire year acting incredibly suspiciously, is a sign of lunacy. Fancy that.”

They all snorted at that.

“So, what’s your explanation, Harry?” Hermione asked. “Did some mystical, unexplained source of knowledge just _land_ in your lap?”

“Yes, Potter. Do tell,” Blaise added, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Hermione that screamed of an alliance he needed to sabotage. Immediately.

He really wished Ron were here, though the idea of him willingly stepping into a Slytherin’s home as a guest was laughable.

“Me. Cheat? Weren’t you mocking me not a year ago about some Daily Prophet editorial that described me as the moral compass of Magical Britain?”

Hermione shook her head beside him.

“Well, yes. That writer doesn’t know you. I do, _Chosen One_ ,” Blaise said.

Blaise waved his hand impatiently as if Harry’s burning ears were nothing of consequence. To be fair, it was incredibly common when Harry was at the receiving end of one of Blaise’s sequences of verbal jabs to spend half the conversation with a pink tinge.

“I found a book.”

Blaise’s eyebrows rose in unison.

“A book that going by Granger’s explanation just landed in your lap.”

“Actually, I got it out of Snape’s supply cupboard,” he corrected.

Hermione elbowed him again.

“Hey!” He exclaimed.

Harry rubbed his side. Her elbows hurt.

“Then I put it in my lap to read it,” he corrected, again.

He managed to catch her elbow the third time it came for his chest.

“Just tell him,” she snapped, and she added, “Professor Snape’s old textbook.”

“So… violent, Granger,” Blaise murmured, awe in his voice. “Are those the sparks of brilliance that saw Malfoy crying in the Slytherin Common Room in third year?”

Hermione’s fingers worried at the thin, yet remarkably gaudy chain peeking through the neck of her jacket.

“He cried?” Harry asked, desperately hoping the answer was yes.

“Whined, but it’s all the same with him. I think I could power a Patronus out of that memory,” Blaise commented, a genuine smile on his face.

“Out of something that petty?” Harry asked.

Blaise snorted, his almond eyes squinting into slits.

“You doubt me, Potter?”

Harry didn’t say anything, but his opinion must have been written in every aspect of his face with how quickly Blaise reached for his wand.

“ _Expecto patronum_.”

A silvery mist spouted out of Blaise’s wand before quickly dissipating into vaporous fog. Harry managed to catch out the beginnings of a pair of ears before the spell failed.

“Impressive,” Hermione said.

Her tone said it was anything but.

“Even you’re not that petty, Blaise,” Harry chided.

“I suppose I’ll think of something else,” Blaise acceded.

He was momentarily contemplative before his gaze bored into Harry. He must have read the continuing doubt in Harry’s face. It wasn’t that Harry doubted his ability to cast a Patronus. He could, and he wasn’t exactly the happiest person, but Blaise had always seemed to be, at best, emotionally constipated by Harry’s estimations.

He was self-aware enough to know that that was rich coming from him. He remembered his fifth year with a cringe.

 _“Expecto patronum_ ,” he repeated.

A big cat emerged from his wand and roamed on the table, head held aloft and ears swivelling to-and-fro.

“A leopard,” Hermione said. “Fits, I guess.”

They watched as the Patronus sat on its paws before them on the table, inspecting them for a second with white-blue eyes. It seemed to find them acceptable as it languidly slipped into a graceful recline and began to lick its paws. Somehow, it made something so stereotypically _housecat_ look regal.

“Not quite a lion,” Harry said.

They watched its ministrations for a few seconds before Blaise dismissed it with a quick flick of his wand, placing it back at his side on the table.

“And there I was about to conjure it a throne,” Harry joked.

Blaise’s full lips curled into a satisfied smile. There was an edge of accomplishment in the way he inspected his nails.

“African leopard,” Blaise said, “and I’m more than a couple of brain cells over the threshold of the Gryffindor mascot. Sorry, Potter.”

“Just a couple?” Harry asked.

It wasn’t like Blaise to implicate his own house by association when insulting Gryffindor.

“Well, you’ve not all descended to the intellectual prowess of Crabbe and Goyle, have you? I knew I shouldn’t have tried to offer you a compliment.”

Harry laughed, a warm feeling in his chest when Blaise reluctantly chuckled himself.

"It's like you and Malfoy, but... friendly!” Hermione exclaimed, a disbelieving giggle escaping her that she quickly covered up with her hands. Harry watched, bewildered, as a violent blush began to grow upon her cheeks as if she were embarrassed to be caught laughing.  
  
It was a punch to the gut for Harry to realise that this was the first time he'd heard Hermione laugh since Ron had left them. There was a deep sense of failing - that he'd failed to fill the void left by their best friend. Since Ron had left, he and Hermione barely spoke; there were no silly conversations, aimless brainstorming or harmless speculation on how their friends were doing at Hogwarts. It just wasn't the same, and perhaps he could have done more? But then again, could anyone really replace Ron?

“I’d like to think I don’t have the relentless obsession Malfoy has with Potter, Granger,” Blaise said.

His expression was incredibly cool and his lip curled in disgust.

“Unlike Malfoy, he’s trustworthy,” Harry immediately said.

“I think?” He added after a slight pause.

He hadn’t intended for that to come out like a question.

“I think?” Hermione whispered dramatically at him.

Blaise shook his head, disbelieving.

“A glowing commendation from Undesirable Number One, I suppose,” Blaise drawled. “As If the Death Eaters needed _another_ reason to track me down.”

“You’re on the run?” Hermione asked, visibly kicking herself before her words had turned to silence.

“No, Granger, I decided to live in a Muggle flat under Fidelius using as little magic as possible for a laugh. I’d suggest trying it, but by the looks of the two of you you’ve been living and enjoying a particularly _scenic_ life since Hogwarts.”

Blaise looked like he was on the verge of saying something incredibly spiteful, of lashing out. Nerves were still remarkably threadbare on both sides, buried deep beneath the playful banter.

The heavy downcast of his brow slowly diminished when he made eye contact with Harry, seeming to think better of whatever scathing retort he’d had on his mind.

“Of course not, Granger,” Blaise mumbled, draining the rest of his tea down in one long gulp with a grunt. It was probably the most human thing he’d done all night, such a clear expression of exasperation.

“My mother is very rich,” he offered after a rather uncomfortable silence, “and to take over a country, you need gold, a lot of it. I’d make fine leverage, as you can imagine.”

Blaise somehow managed to sound oddly proud of that fact.

“Even haggard and stressed, you’re as vain as can be, Zabini,” Hermione said.

“It pains him, but he and Malfoy are surprisingly alike in that regard,” Harry added, the beginnings of a grin on his face. It wasn’t really that true, but comparisons between Blaise and Malfoy were an easy way to crack past his inscrutable face to the world. Blaise never failed to look like he had been slapped.

“The only reason I haven’t kicked you out of my flat, Granger, is because of that lovely punch you gave Malfoy in third year. Parkinson was whining about you for _weeks_. Glorious. Don’t push your luck,” he said, pointing accusingly at her.

He turned to Harry, the signs of a smile clearly warring with his desire to look serious.

“And you, Potter. People seem to be under the impression that you’re going to save the world or something equally stupid. I wouldn’t want to kick you out and find out that Goyle somehow wandered into Muggle London and killed you with a miscast _alohomora_ on my doorstep.”

Harry grinned easily, pushing his empty mug of tea towards the centre of the table.

“Are these the Pureblood manners that Malfoy was forever telling me Muggleborns don’t have?” Hermione asked.

She squinted her eyes deeply at Blaise as if looking closely would make his manners suddenly visible. The sarcasm in her voice was a fine challenge to Blaise’s own and before Blaise could retort, Harry interjected. He really didn’t want to find out how Horcrux-influenced Hermione and Blaise clashed.

“We wouldn’t dream of it, Zabini,” Harry said, deciding to be a little more diplomatic than Hermione.

Blaise inclined his head indulgently, leaning back in his chair and caressing his chipped mug in his hands with his fingers. Harry’s eyesight wasn’t the best, but even he could make out the threading cracks along the mug’s surface that were the marks of excessive use of _reparo_. Blaise wasn’t clumsy; that he was sure of.

“I’d say you’re as much a know-it-all as usual, but your grasp of the obvious has been inconsistent tonight,” Blaise said.

He got up and turned towards his cupboards, sifting through them again.

“Me live Muggle for no reason,” Blaise muttered under his breath.

He tossed a bundle of compression bandages onto the table before turning towards the freezer and pulling out a small bag of ice.

“You can heal those the muggle way or if you’re willing to trust me, Granger,” he said, looking truly pained. “I’m good enough with rudimentary healing charms. I can fix those… unsightly bruises on your face.”

Hermione turned to Harry.

“Forgotten my glowing commendation already, Granger?”

“Shove off, Zabini.”

There was a question in her earnest gaze at Harry.

“He’s trustworthy,” Harry confirmed.

Blaise watched their byplay with barely disguised interest, rapping his fingers impatiently on the table next to where he’d placed the ice and bandages.

“Go ahead,” Hermione said, lifting her chin towards Blaise in challenge.

“ _Episkey_ ,” he intoned with a brutish looking motion of his wand.

It was different to Harry’s own usage of the spell, the wand movement almost violent, but he’d only adopted it after Tonks had used it on him. Mimicry. He wasn’t at all aware of the theory behind it.

Harry watched with interest as the splotches of purple and blue across Hermione’s neck and cheek, in some places speckled with the mosaic pattern of Nagini’s scales, quickly faded into a raw pink.

“That was a serious bruise, Granger,” Blaise murmured as the raw look of Hermione’s healed skin disappeared. “You have more?”

Hermione shook her head and Blaise shrugged, knowing not to fight a battle not worth fighting. He turned to Harry who waved him off. He’d gotten off largely scot-free; though the burn at his chest twinged fiercely at that thought.

“It’s an upward flick into a jab. Eh-PIS-kee. Make sure you put force on the second syllable. It works best when the jab synchronises with the ‘kee’,” Blaise recited offhandedly before picking up the unneeded bandages and ice.

Hermione gave him a nod and smiled, one that met her eyes. Even with a piece of Voldemort’s soul wrapped around her neck, filling her head with insidious thoughts and an emotional malaise, there were few things she appreciated more than knowledge freely given.

Blaise’s eyes met his own. The curl to his lip was more than mocking.

“Why didn’t you heal Granger, Potter?”

Harry scratched the stubble growing on his chin, incredibly embarrassed and feeling far too exposed.

“I didn’t know it worked on bruises,” he half-lied, “I’ve only tried it on split lips and broken noses.”

“It’s alright, Harry,” Hermione said, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

She took out her wand and pointed it towards her waist.

“ _Episkey_.”

Hermione stretched beside him with an appreciative sigh. It filled him with the memory of Crookshanks and Hermione reclining together in an armchair, a book somewhere in Hermione’s cramped lap, at the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room. Simpler times. It almost made him miss the cat.

“That’s much better,” Blaise said, audibly pleased.

“Does it work well on burns?” Harry asked.

“Depends. If it’s due to a non-magical source, yes. Burns caused by Dark magic are obviously resistant, but it should at least ease the pain. Anything else it should work fine for,” Blaise quickly rattled off.

A Horcrux burning against flesh seemed a lot like dark magic to Harry, but it was worth a try. He coughed at Hermione, gesturing towards his chest.

Hermione nodded and pointed her wand.

“ _Episkey_.”

Blaise had been right. The pain eased ever so slightly making it easier to breathe. Harry sank into his chair and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. He finally let himself feel the strain, the horror that had pumped through his veins. As he closed his eyes, he could almost relive his struggle with Nagini controlling Bagshot’s corpse. With the pain less intense, he felt slightly more at ease.

“Thanks.”

Hermione gave him a wan smile while Blaise hummed noncommittedly, a frown on his face.

“No wand, Potter?” Blaise asked despite already seeming to know the answer.

Blaise looked deeply disturbed at the thought, and Harry’s stomach curled and rolled anew with the two pieces of holly and phoenix feather buried in the bag he was prodding with his foot.

“More tea, I think,” Blaise muttered. “and I’ll get the paracetamol.”

He turned on his heel and walked off.

“And don’t even try to be noble about this, Potter. You look terrible,” Blaise snapped from somewhere in the corridor.

Harry’s teeth came together with a dull clack, startling him. He’d honestly been unaware that he’d been about to protest.

“I need to learn how to do that,” Hermione mumbled from where she’d half-slumped against the table, her wand pointed towards her right hand.

“ _Episkey_ … _Episkey_.”

She rubbed her hands together, a blissful sigh escaping her.

“I really should have brought a book on healing spells.”

“Would have been handy,” Harry said with a shrug.

Hermione had been invaluable regardless, as always.

Harry tilted his head towards the doorway Blaise had exited the room from.

“So… what do you think?”

“He’s more talkative than I ever remember him being,” Hermione said. “Now that I say that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak before sixth year.”

She nibbled at her nails. It was a habit Hermione frequently adopted when presented with a particularly troublesome assignment that refused to immediately yield before the might of the Hogwarts Library.

“He’s not usually this talkative. I guess the loneliness was starting to drive him barmy,” Harry suggested.

“He’s okay for a Slytherin, I guess,” Hermione said.

There was a sudden seriousness to her face.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked oddly hesitant and placed her head against the table, seeming on the cusp of dozing.

“He gives you something neither Ron or I could give you. Doesn’t he, Harry?”

Harry froze up.

“What do you mean?”

His answering question came out sounding more dangerously than he’d intended, but Hermione carried on.

“He gives you someone to fight, with no repercussions. I mean Ron isn’t anywhere as witty and would likely get mad, let’s be honest, and I’d take it personally.”

When Hermione put it that way, Harry could see her point.

“Maybe.”

Hermione tutted impatiently.

“You have no idea what a stark difference your attitude has been in these last couple of minutes compared to our time in that bloody tent.”

Harry felt incredibly guilty.

“I like him. He’s good for you,” Hermione admitted. It didn’t sound as grudging as Harry had expected it to.

“Because he taught you a basic Healing Charm?”

“Not just that. Stop being difficult, Harry,” Hermione said, lifting her face where it’d been buried in her impromptu hair cushion.

Her cloying smile made him feel incredibly self-conscious, as if she was beholden to a truth that she could not share.

“Besides, he seems to handle your noble, self-sacrificing streak just fine. For that alone, I have to approve. Not even Ginny managed that.”

Harry shrugged, not wanting to even touch on that subject.

“Have I got a fan, Granger?”

Blaise tossed the bottle of paracetamol at Harry which he caught with an easy grace. When done, having swallowed down the chalky pill with a grimace, he offered it to Hermione who shook her head, still devoting her focus to giving Blaise a challenging gaze.

“Don’t push your luck, Zabini,” she said.

There was something pointed in her statement.

Blaise pursed his lips after a sharp intake of breath. Their showdown continued, the two of them seeming to probe each other with cold expressions. Harry was beyond confused, but for some unknown reason he held his tongue.

Finally, Blaise broke their eye contact and rolled his eyes.

“On second thoughts, I think it’d be prudent if you two got some rest.”

He sounded furious, a quiet storm in his curt tone.

Hermione looked incredibly apologetic, opening her mouth to apologise, but Blaise shook his head firmly and walked out. Harry was just bewildered. He had the feeling that he’d missed an incredibly important conversation that may or not have concerned him.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Hermione tiredly said at his inquisitive gaze.

He was too tired to really argue and just grunted.

* * *

Blaise was both a good host and a bad one. Even after that Hermione-induced disaster, he’d came back to the kitchen with two spare mattresses, brought them to a spacious lounge and then transfigured the mattresses into camp beds. He’d left Harry and Hermione to their rest after a sharp wish of goodnight.

He’d apologised when they’d woken up in the early evening to find the mattresses he’d transfigured had reverted while they were asleep. They’d both slept so soundly they hadn’t noticed. As if to make up for that error, Blaise seemed to make a big deal out of anticipating their needs. Harry had most appreciated the food and (Harry’s favourite had to be the beef bourguignon) Blaise engaging conversation of his own volition when things got dreary. Despite these bizarre hospitable tendencies from Blaise that Harry found difficult to reconcile with the teenager he knew from school, the snide comments about appearances were ever-present, if a little politer than Harry remembered them being. Some things didn’t change.

During breakfast the day after they’d came, a pleasant meal of French toast, Blaise brandished a hedgehog-looking brush and a wide-toothed comb at Hermione. Her reply was a blank look.

“I have a brush and comb. Thanks,” she said, voice carefully neutral.

“Well, I can only assume you don’t have either,” he said an equally blank expression on his face.

“Fix… that,” he gestured in the direction of Hermione’s decidedly bushy hair, still wet from her shower. “In exchange for my hospitality, you can prevent that from turning into a long-forgotten topiary.”

“Why do you even care?”

Hermione’s tone was dangerous, scary enough to cow Harry or Ron without much effort, but sadly for Hermione, Blaise was Blaise.

“I’m vain, as you mentioned a couple of hours ago, for the fourth time,” he said dryly, “and I like my guests to look presentable.”

Blaise looked pointedly to the comb and brush in his hands, no sign of him yielding in his expression.

Hermione took the comb and brush with a sigh. Blaise had woken them both at six, insisting that he wasn’t altering his routine for them. They were both still exhausted, even after all the sleep they’d gotten yesterday. Tiredness that had seeped into your very bones was slow to leave. It was just easier to go along with his demands at this point.

“Merry Christmas, Granger,” Blaise said with a charming smile, arms held aloft as if he’d given her the world.

It was almost entirely disarming despite how diminished he seemed compared to his usual pristine appearance at Hogwarts. Hermione was clearly unimpressed and idly inspected the brush he’d given her. Harry didn’t recall ever seeing Hermione with something similar.

“It was Christmas yesterday, Zabini,” she remarked with a snap.

“We know you’re the brains of this outfit, Granger,” Blaise said placidly, ignoring Hermione’s comment.

“Trust me, remember? Stop being difficult like Potter was being Christmas morning,” he said snidely.

Hermione squeaked at the realisation that Blaise had heard everything. The flat may have been in an expensive area, but it was still small. Harry was strangely unconcerned with the idea of Blaise hearing, thinking back to that moment at the lake. Perhaps what he heard would help with his insecurities about their friendship.

“I know it’s not a magic fix like that product you used during the Yule Ball, but it’ll make your hair more manageable.”

Hermione gave him and the accessories in her hands a dubious look. He could imagine she’d heard similar things from Parvati and Lavender over the years.

“He won’t drop it until you at least try it, Hermione,” Harry said after a crunchy bite rich with egg, butter and a smattering of demerara sugar. Blaise was admittedly a decent (really good) cook. Even in his mind that admission was grudging.

“I’m not difficult,” she said to herself.

She rose out of her chair with a loud huff, conjured a simple hand mirror with a quick swish of her wand and began to brush her hair, half-heartedly.

“Not like Harry anyway,” she muttered.

Harry ignored that in favour of finishing his breakfast.

“Well, you can prove that by detangling first with the comb and _then_ use the brush, but don’t start at the roots,” Blaise ordered from his seat, the careless smirk on his face of a Slytherin in his element.

Hermione huffed but did as told. Harry was sure that the barely restrained violence she was attempting to tame her hair with was not imagined nor feigned.

“What about Harry?” Hermione ground out, struggling with a particularly resistant knot. “His hair is… well…”

“I’m still thinking of a solution to deal with Potter’s rat nest that doesn’t involve cutting it or letting it grow,” Blaise said.

He tapped a long finger against his cheek in deep thought.

“I’m afraid it’s likely you’ll have beaten the Dark Lord long before I even come up with something half feasible.”

Hermione nodded, oblivious to the splutter of indignation about to leave Harry’s mouth.

“Sensible.”

Harry finished his breakfast just as Blaise sat down to start his own.

“It’s a lot better, Hermione,” Harry said encouragingly. “R- “

He cut himself off before he finished his sentence: Ron would like it. Focusing on his empty plate, Harry didn’t dare look Hermione in the eye. He didn’t want to know if she’d caught what he was going to say.

Blaise nodded approvingly, unknowing of the wound that Harry had almost opened.

It wasn’t anywhere as orderly as the day she’d slathered her hair in Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, but it was a massive improvement. It was still bushy, but nowhere near as frizzy – curlier if anything.

“Why’d he have to be right? Hermione groaned.

“You get used to it,” Harry said.

Hermione gave him a dangerous glare.

“Eventually,” he hedged.

With a harsh flick of her wand, the strands of hair that’d fallen to the floor with her ministrations disappeared.

“How long are you two staying?” Blaise asked, leaning casually against the fridge with his plate in hand.

It was strange to see Blaise doing something so casual as eating stood up, but Harry was slowly concluding that there was a difference between Hogwarts Blaise and hiding under Fidelius Blaise, or perhaps it was simply a difference between a public and private persona. Or maybe he’d just went nuts and didn’t care so much about decorum anymore.

“A couple of days,” Harry said.

Blaise nodded absently, turned to his fridge, and with a lazy flick of his wand made the surface transparent.

“Grazie Dio for _geminio_.”

“Grazie indeed,” Hermione echoed after a nosy peek behind Blaise’s back at the contents of his fridge.

Hermione stepped forward and the comb and brush dropped on the table with a dull thunk.

“Wait. What have you been duplicating? It can’t be food. You know Gamp’s -”

Blaise gave Hermione a scathing look, more appropriate for a particularly troublesome beetle, refusing to be cleanly crushed during Potions, than a person.

“Muggle money, of course. Getting fresh produce from the farmer’s market isn’t cheap. You think I’m going to eat supermarket filth?”

At Hermione’s horrified look, Blaise shrugged.

“By the time it wears off, the money will have changed hands at least a dozen times. Well, the notes maybe three or four times. The coins are quite hardy, you know?”

It sounded perfectly sensible to Harry. Morally, it was questionable, but survival was survival as far as he was concerned. Blaise turned back to the fridge, mumbling under his breath about what he’d need to purchase for two ravenous Gryffindors.

“That’s not the point!” Hermione shrieked.

Familiar with the sound of a Hermione crusade, Harry considered the possibility of telling Blaise they might leave tomorrow. He wouldn’t wish the sequel to SPEW on his worst enemy.

Maybe Snape though. Definitely Snape.

* * *

Blaise refused to stop abusing the Geminio Curse and Hermione grew increasingly shrill about it, to no effect. Hermione had made a point of turning her nose up at Blaise’s cooking, but a couple of looks at Harry contentedly feasting generally broke her.

When they weren’t arguing, Hermione was debating and dissecting spells with Blaise in the dozens of books he’d brought to her after their first day. It was an impressive peace offering if Harry had ever seen one. Harry listened, marvelling privately at their differences in approach – Hermione had a very effective and rigorous approach to spellwork, trusting entirely in literary text, yet Blaise was incredibly flexible, being the type to take the core of a spell and make alterations to the wand movements and diction and produce more or less the same effect. It made Harry think Blaise would make a terrifying duellist with how difficult he’d be to predict. What he was doing must have made sense to Hermione, as she never questioned his thought processes, but it seemed almost whimsical and random to Harry. Hermione had claimed it to be cheating as his wand was made of pine, whatever that meant.

On the fourth night, they found themselves sat around the kitchen table once more, a pile of books to Hermione’s left, one at Blaise’s right, and Harry was idly drilling all the spells he knew with Hermione’s wand.

Blaise seemed to wince with every burst of light that escaped Harry’s wand.

“That’s It, Potter. No more light shows,” Blaise snapped.

Harry put Hermione’s wand back on the table with a snort. Blaise’s eyes followed him with the familiar glimmer of humour in their dark brown irises.

“I don’t have Firewhisky, which I’d really appreciate right now, but I have some white wine. It’s a Chardonnay that was bottled in Sicily. Pretty good,” Blaise offered, fishing a wine bottle out of a cupboard.

They drank in silence, admiring the gentle patter of snow outside Blaise’s window. It was surprisingly good, nothing compared to the burn and fire of a decent Firewhisky, but good all the same. It had a sharp citrus tang followed by a smooth buttery finish. Pleasant.

He was glad that his friends got along. It made the ache of Ron a little more bearable and filled him with a sense of befuddled wonderment. He somehow had the feeling that the Sorting Hat hadn’t meant taking refuge together in an unplottable location for inter-house unity. It was an extreme solution, but one that he was happy to experience. It made the ever-present reminder of Voldemort’s continued existence less daunting, knowing another friend was safe for at least the moment.

Harry was well into his second glass before he spoke, breaking the sacred silence after days of on and off bickering.

“Do you really think that we’ll win, Blaise?”

Blaise finished his sip exceptionally slowly.

“Potter… Harry.”

Despite Blaise’s tone being incredibly soft, there was no mistaking its mocking undertones. There was a playfulness to the smile that crept across his face.

“The alternative is I live in this flat for the rest of my life. You don’t have to believe you’ll succeed, or believe in the idea of me supporting you, but unfortunately my sanity depends on it.”

“No pressure,” Hermione muttered, nursing her glass gingerly. Somehow, her wand had ended up tucked behind her ear in a mimicry of Luna. Another person Harry missed dearly. Maybe, subconsciously at least, Hermione felt for Luna strongly enough to copy one of her habits.

Harry and Hermione shared a look, both exasperated and equal in their reluctant amusement.

“The fate of Magical Britain and Blaise Zabini’s sanity. No pressure, huh?” Harry asked.

Blaise just dipped his head and rose to his feet.

“I’m glad we have an understanding,” Blaise said before topping up their glasses.

“Not even going to try and convince us that you’re more important?”

Blaise cleared his throat impatiently before sinking back into his seat. He sipped his glass quietly.

“That, Granger, goes without saying,” Blaise said after a lengthy pause he’d clearly relished.

All too soon the bottle was empty. A single glass had quickly spiralled into five for Harry, three for Hermione, and three for Blaise.

“Your interpretation of the Principle of Artificianimate Quasi-Dominance was surprisingly developed, Zabini.”

“I was almost sorted into Ravenclaw, Granger,” Blaise admitted. “Unfortunately, the hat seemed to be fixated on Slytherin.”

His face turned rather ugly.

“It seemed to think pretending to be a blood supremacist would be character building for a foreign wizard.”

“You’re not?” Hermione asked.

Blaise rolled his eyes and took a deep drain of the remaining dregs in his glass as if they would save him from Hermione’s questions.

“I have opinions on blood purity, but not opinions strong enough to really care about what Mud- I mean Muggleborns and Half-bloods concern themselves with.”

“You hate everyone equally,” Harry said.

“Exactly,” Blaise said.

He gave Harry an appreciative glance for the easy out. Blaise wasn’t a blood purist, as far as Harry could understand. Blaise disliked that Muggleborns had little appreciation for the culture of the Wizarding World of itself, but rather saw it as a reflection of Victorian Muggle England rather than its own nuanced culture. Despite that, he was perfectly fine with Muggles, and Harry had spent years trying to battle that contradictory viewpoint. He had the feeling it was due to family that Blaise was more accepting of Muggles than he was of Muggleborns. The more that he thought of it, he didn’t think he’d ever heard Blaise mention any Muggleborn family. Perhaps, getting to know Hermione would better Blaise’s views.

“You think I’m proud people will classify me as being equal with Malfoy of all people, Granger? Crabbe? _Goyle_?”

There was nothing but revulsion in his face.

“Regardless of that, the more… zealous Purebloods in Britain wouldn’t consider me a true Pureblood anyway. My maternal grandmother is a Muggle, as I said when you unceremoniously entered my life, Granger.”

“I have more questions,” Hermione slurred.

Blaise looked incredibly wary, but he shrugged.

“What’d you get in your OWLs?”

“Four Os, three Es and two As. Don’t bother telling me yours. _Everyone_ knows your results,” he said.

Blaise’s lip curled at Hermione’s ensuing blush – an amusing mix of embarrassment and pride. He nodded at Harry.

“Yours too.”

Hermione span her hand, clearly asking for more detail.

“The Os were in Astronomy, Charms, History of Magic – “

“Binns!” Harry spat, disbelieving. He was fairly sure he remembered a certain dark-skinned Slytherin half-asleep during most of Binns’ lectures in fourth year.

“I bought a Self-Writing Quill in third year, Potter. Nowhere near as good as the ones the Weasley twins sell, but it got the job done. I had great notes.”

“Brilliant,” he murmured to himself, again and again, into the wood of the table.

“Yes, it’s brilliant the things you can achieve when you don’t hallucinate during an exam,” Blaise commented dryly.

“He didn’t hallucinate,” Hermione said, “and back to your grades. They’re good!”

“I’m aware and is that a tone of surprise, Granger?” Blaise muttered. “The other O was in Arithmancy. The Es: Transfiguration, Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. The two As in Herbology and Ancient Runes.”

“Herbology… that makes so much sense. You probably hated to get dirty,” Harry said, snapping his fingers in triumph.

“I will neither confirm nor deny.”

It was as good as a confirmation.

“Runes though? You’re bilingual, aren’t you?” Hermione queried.

“Italian, Portuguese and English. I’m not very good with Nordic languages. Elder Futhark was positively barbaric,” Blaise said with an embarrassed wince.

“Wow, Blaise admitting a weakness. You’ve drank that much?”

“Shut it, Potty,” Blaise snapped with no bite.

Hermione’s humoured snort was in diametric opposition to her fierce reactions when Malfoy called him that.

“Next question, Zabini,” Hermione declared.

He tensed all anew. Harry in his drunken stupor was confused about what Blaise possibly had to be nervous about.

“Why are you using as little magic as possible? You didn’t seem to mind when I used a Scouring Charm to clean my hair.”

Blaise chuckled to himself, visibly deflating in his chair.

“It gets boring around here. Making household tasks as long and tedious as possible leaves me with less time with nothing to do,” he admitted, running a hand through his closely cropped hair. “I’ve already read all my books twice over.”

“Now, do I get to ask any questions?” Blaise asked.

Harry thought he sounded perfectly reasonable, but his drunk mind was too busy admiring how Blaise’s skin tone managed to merge with the wood. It was almost like magic. Pretty. Was Blaise a dryad or something? They had oaken skin, if he remembered Hagrid’s gruff lectures correctly.

“Golden brown,” Harry murmured to himself. “Gold that is brown.”

Hermione’s hair whipped against Harry’s head due to the suddenness with which she turned to stare at him with. Harry’s mouth seemed to move of its own volition, and Hermione’s posture seemed to become unnaturally fixed. Blaise was simply slack jawed.

“Well… Harry is an interesting drunk. Do you know what I’ve noticed, Zabini?”

There was something daring and predatory in the way Hermione leaned towards Blaise, snapping the dark-skinned man out of his daze.

“Let’s not,” Blaise said rapidly, his gaze flickering rapidly between Harry and Hermione.

Hermione searched Blaise’s face carefully, seeming to be content to drop her prodding and she absentmindedly cuffed Harry on the back of his head. He’d been happily reciting permutations of ‘gold that is brown’ to himself.

They continued as if the last two or three minutes hadn’t even happened. Harry mindlessly took his explorations of dryad Blaise and the ‘brown gold that is’ to the deep recesses of his loopy mind.

“There I was about to grant you the right to ask a question, Mr Mystery, Mr _Pine Wand_ ,” Hermione said.

Blaise reflexively reached for his empty wine glass. He passed off the motion by idly toying with the stem of the glass, astutely ignoring Harry’s drunken rumbly chuckle.

“You’ve not asked anything about our… quest. Why?” Harry managed to slur out.

To Harry’s mind, that was an incredibly tricky question. One that he’d have to think deeply on before answering, but it must have been something Blaise was expecting as he answered readily.

“For our mutual safety, and I didn’t think you came here seeking a collaborator. You’re here to forget and recuperate. I’m happy to be able to provide a sense of refuge for you,” Blaise said with a nod to himself.

Happy. The silent prowling of a leopard echoed in Harry’s mind, and it made his drunken mind feel oddly melancholy and giddy.

“We’re thankful for your hospitality,” Hermione said.

“Yes, we won’t forget this,” Harry said, as earnest as any drunk teenager with the world on his shoulders. “Ever.”

Blaise nodded.

“Before I forget… since your moral compass overpowers your common sense, Granger,” Blaise said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of money.

“This is all authentic before you screech at me,” he added quickly.

He held it towards Hermione, the illusion of oneness with the table broken in Harry’s mind. He groaned silently in his throat.

“Potter would say no and the alcohol hit you first,” he said in response to her questioning gaze at his hand. “Take it – maybe nine hundred pounds there. I’d give you more, but I need the rest as Geminio bases.”

“Thank you, Blaise,” Hermione said with a shuddering laugh.

She hiccupped a little, seemingly overcome with emotion. He’d never known that Hermione was an emotional drunk, but he was dead certain that she was on the cusp of tears.

He couldn’t quite believe it either.

Blaise nodded at him, understanding in that annoying way of his.

“You’re alright, Zabini,” Hermione said, entirely serious, “I hope you understand that.”

“Yeah…” He said with an eye roll, dismissing Hermione. “Use it to eat something. There’s no reason we should all be in a competition to look emaciated.”

“You do the same,” Harry ordered, managing to not sound like a complete drunkard.

Blaise jerked back a little, truly shocked, and then he laughed, low and loud. His ensuing smile met his eyes. It was a welcome sight that provoked an answering smile on Harry’s own face.

“I will, Potter. Don’t darken my doorstep ever again,” Blaise teased.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Maybe for the next Dark Lord.”

Blaise’s eyes lit up with something, but then it was gone, and he was ushering them to the door, large palms pressing insistently into their upper backs. Hermione was giggling, and Harry was just confused. It was maddeningly anticlimactic, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure why it had to be like this.

Was Blaise afraid to let them stay longer?

“Bye, Zabini,” Hermione said with a final smile.

They were all stood in the threshold of Blaise’s flat, before the door leading back to tents, prophecies, and Horcruxes.

“Bad host,” he slurred.

Blaise looked entirely amused to Harry’s consternation.

“We wouldn’t leave if he didn’t strong-arm us, Harry. Besides, it’s time we got going,” Hermione explained as if to a five-year old.

He rolled his eyes, poorly, going by Blaise’s snort.

“Thanks… Blaise,” Harry said.

He took in Blaise’s face, unsure what to make of the sadness clearly broadcast in his features. In his own way, tipsy Blaise was clearly an even more emotional drunk than Hermione. Drunk Harry didn’t like the sight of unhappiness on Blaise. Seriousness, mocking and disgust were the mainstays. How could he even be unhappy during such a festive period anyway?

“Happy Easter!”

Blaise’s right eyebrow rose astronomically high, even by his usual standards. Harry must have said it wrong.

“Happy.. Ea- never mind,” Blaise began before thinking better of it.

Harry had always appreciated Blaise’s aptitude for knowing what battles not to fight. Besides, confusion was a better suit than unhappy.

“That’s better,” Harry murmured.

Blaise shrugged at him, the muscles in his shoulders moving through the elegant motion with enviable ease. Harry was sure if he attempted to imitate it in his current state he’d end up on the floor.

“Give the Dark Lord hell for me, Potter. Hanging, head on a pike, drawn and quartered…”

There was a definite viciousness to Blaise’s voice.

“Make it appropriately medieval," he ordered with an imperious nod.

Harry nodded back, having only understood Dark Lord and hell. He’d send him to hell where bad things go.

“Yes, Blaise. Whatever you want,” he slurred unintelligibly.

Blaise gave a disgusted little cough and clapped him on the shoulder, leaning in to peer at his eyes. He searched for something for a moment, maybe some inner conviction or something appropriately heroic he’d need for killing Voldemort, before backing away.

“That’s a good Gryffindor,” he said with a wry shake of his head.

Blaise’s nose wrinkled minutely as if Harry were something disgusting beneath his nails and Harry laughed himself to the point he felt sick, ignoring Hermione gently rubbing his back. It was like nothing had changed.

He could still feel the heat of Blaise’s hand on his shoulder.

“Put him to bed, Granger,” Blaise said, sounding far too tired of Harry’s antics.

“Way ahead of you, Zabini,” she said, sounding incredibly lucid to Harry’s jealous ears.

That wasn’t fair, was the only thing he could think as the door shut behind them with a quiet click.

Regardless of their sudden departure, his spirits were unimaginably high. Harry was still confused as to why they’d decided to leave while still tipsy. Blaise would surely put them up for another night, but the sense of finality was profound. There was no going back now.

Harry turned to Hermione feeling as if he could take on Voldemort threefold. He’d send him to hell like Blaise had said.

“Where to?”

“A forest and then the tent, I imagine,” Hermione remarked dryly, the sibilance of a slur still on her voice.

She was sobering up quickly in the nippy winter air.

“I was feeling like the Forest of Dean, personally. And then I’ll want to spend some time reading that awful woman’s book about Dumbledore. Think of the lies she’s filled it with…”

“Maybe there will be some hints towards… something. Treasure,” Harry added sagely.

Hermione hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

He looked back at the door to Blaise’s flat before Hermione span on the spot and dragged him away. Harry’s head lurched with a sense of vertigo as Hermione pulled him towards a blind spot behind a large recycling bin and then into the void of Apparition with a quiet pop.

Harry hoped he didn’t puke.


End file.
